


Hold

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Massage, Sex Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another harrowing day, another beaten hope, but Enjolras and Combeferre find rest at each night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's Ferrejolras Week

They came together at the end of each day. Enjolras entered their apartment, and Combeferre looked up from his studies to meet his gaze. It was something that they had shared many times. Their look did not seek comfort or longing, only a strong sense of solidarity. It was their ritual — to say with a glance how the day had passed, be it in joyous victory or battered defeat. They would know which was which by the crinkle in their eyes, by the deepness of their breaths, by the crease in their brows. It was their way.

Enjolras walked straight to their room. There had been no adventure that day, but there comes a time when weariness seeps into bones, so betrayingly silent that one is caught unaware. It was weariness as a result of failed plans and crushed hopes, delivered parcel by parcel until they topple and bury their bearer. Enjolras’s mountain fell often, strong and steady as he might seem, but fall and fall he did. His shoulder would sag, his head would bow low, and Combeferre would be there to keep him upright.

He surfaced from their rooms, relieved of both hat and coat, and deposited himself on their only arm chair, a present from Enjolras’s father and the only piece of furniture he cared to keep.

Combeferre stood from the writing desk. Silently, he made for the wash stand, his feet treading softly but firmly on the wooden floor. The pitcher thudded against the table; the water splashed on the bowl. With closed eyes, Enjolras traced every sound, the familiarity lending itself to a certain peace in his thoughts. To Enjolras, anything Combeferre did was a reassurance.

Cold hands set themselves firmly on his shoulder, and the sudden coolness made him sit up and open his eyes. He tilted his head upward, his confused gaze meeting Combeferre’s confident one. Combeferre’s lips curved into a half-smile, and his hands began kneading Enjolras’s shoulders.

It was a slow, succulent operation. Where Combeferre touched, there was pain, but the pain penetrated his skin and unwound the coiled muscles within, tendon by tendon, bone by bone. Enjolras could feel the tension ease from his shoulders. It was an absolution.

Enjolras sighed and bowed his head, chin almost touching chest, and Combeferre accepted the invitation to his neck. He pressed against his nape, carefully running his thumb against where Enjolras’s skull met his spine, feeling each and every vertebra. Enjolras shuddered.

“Take off your waistcoat.”

“Hmm?” was the only response.

“I think this will feel better if you do.”

Enjolras obeyed, hastily stripping his waistcoat and after consideration, his cravat as well. He flopped back on the armchair all but ready for battle. With a chuckle, Combeferre resumed his ministrations, this time giving attention to Enjolras’s shoulder blades, digging his thumbs and establishing a circular pattern. Feeling Enjolras relax once more, he ventured for conversation.

“I was at the docks today.”

“Hmm, I sea.”

Had Enjolras been listening more keenly, he would have noticed the deadly pause, but Combeferre recovered quickly from the throb at his temple. “I was at the docks today,” he repeated, “and I chanced on some of the crew men doing this to each other’s shoulders.”

“Hmm.”

His hands went back to the neck, enveloping them in a position that looked eerily similar to strangulation. “They tell me that they’d seen sailors from other ships do this after a hard day at sea, supposedly to improve the circulation of blood. Do you think that’s true?”

Having barely listened, Enjolras said, “I don’t know,” he bent his neck to the right that Combeferre may turn his attentions there, “but it feels good.”

“Apparently so.”

Enjolras tilted his head back and looked up to Combeferre, giving him a lethargic smile as he alternately pressed his index and middle fingers against his temples. Enjolras breathed slowly, heavily, and gave in to his own musings.

“I wonder how many times I will be the victim of your experiments.”

Combeferre’s brow creased. “You seemed to enjoy my experiments.” Enjolras’s laugh was a low rumble deep from his throat. “Not all of them, as you may recall.”

A shade of red crept unto Combeferre’s ears. He recalled when his lack of control had led to a certain mishap whose effects had had to be concealed for days. Having borne most of the pain, Enjolras had clearly not forgotten, and he unleashed the full magnificence of his grin to remind Combeferre, who was attempting to hide the growing flush in his cheeks. “In any case, you seem to enjoy this exercise. I may ask the sailors to do it to me tomorrow.”

“I will do it.”

“Well, aren’t you a quick learner?”

“I have proven that time and again.”

Combeferre bit the inside of his lips. There was only so much that he could take, and Enjolras’s mood seemed to have improved enough that he could betray himself.

“Very well, my eager student. Watch and learn.”


End file.
